I Was Made For Loving You
by tori.barnes23
Summary: 18 year old Alexander Hamilton has just arrived on the mainland and is enrolled at Elizabethtown Academy in Elizabeth, NJ. While there, he meets a young seamstress Hannah Cole who is also adapting to a new life as a free woman. This story describes their meeting and the beginning of what ends up a 15 year love affair. Part 1 of 3. Rated M for stuff that happens in affairs ;)
1. Good Afternoon, Sir

_Authors Note:_

 _Hey You! Thanks for stopping by! I wrote this story months ago, of course being in part inspired by the popular musical, but also being inspired by the man himself. I have always been interested in wondering what an interracial relationship in this day in age might look like... one free from slavery. Please enjoy and I respond to any reviews or critques you might have! Chapter 2 to be posted soon!_

It was 1772, and he had been in America for just over two months. With the help of Hercules Mulligan, with whom he first took up lodging when he first came to the colonies, he was soon to enroll at Elizabethtown Academy in Elizabeth, New Jersey in preparation for a college education. He hoped to study medicine like his cousin who had come to the colonies before him. His slight accent hinted at his West Indian roots, despite his attempts to camouflage it to better assimilate to his new home. He had few friends at the time, but relished in the company of those with whom he lived. The Livingston family introduced him to the glamourous society that he was denied as a bastard orphan, exposing him to the refined world of literature and politics that he soon grew to love. He had quite a way with words and often infatuated those with whom he spent his time.

In the same year, and roughly a month after he arrived in Boston harbor, a newly freed woman found work as a seamstress across town from Elizabethtown Academy. Although she was born into slavery, she had been fortunate enough to be literate from a young age. She spent most of her spare time reading and writing, and kept a journal by her bedside. Overtime, she even became fluent in French. Her bilingualism was an aid to her when she started working for money. She assisted the shop's owner in conducting business with wealthy dignitaries, politicians, and military personnel. She made her bed right above place where she worked, and utilized each part of the shop's attic in a tactful way. Freedom was still very new to her, and somehow she believed that she could never be fully comfortable in it. With her being one of the few free Blacks in town, friendships were kept to a minimal. It was still too dangerous to fully trust anyone.

This was the world in which they lived. Although on opposite ends of town and in very different environments, they came from similar backgrounds and had more in common than most people of different races would ever admit at the time. As such, it would be unlikely that their paths would ever cross; however, the winds must've shifted on this fateful day. He accompanied a classmate to a seamstress shop on the opposite side of town. His friend was expecting important company, and simply could not find an available tailor to fix a few buttons on his best jacket. When they entered the shop just after noon, she was in the back hemming a skirt. After hearing the door close, she quickly headed toward the front. There she saw two young men who looked to be about her age.

"Good afternoon, Sirs," she greeted with a smile. "How may I help you two gentlemen?"

"I need to have this jacket fixed! The buttons have come undone. Do you think you might be able to help?" his friend requested, hastily.

"Of course, Sir. I can have it ready in an hour's time," she replied confidently.

"Very good then," his friend responded, looking at his watch. "I will have Alexander wait here until it is ready." He looked up at his friend who was reaching in his pocket for payment. "Here is all I have for the job," the friend stated, putting his coins on the counter. "I trust this will be enough for what I am asking."

"Yes, Sir," she responded. "I will have your jacket ready in an hour. Thank you, Sir." His friend nodded his head as he turned to face him. He was still standing by his side.

"Alexander, I need to run an errand or two. You'll be able to wait for my jacket, yes?" His friend was cocky in his assumption, but he complied.

"Yes, I can wait. I will make due for an hour," he replied.

"Perfect, I will send my carriage for you at that time." And with that, the young men parted ways.

As he watched as his friend ride off in the same carriage that brought the two of them from the opposite side of town, he sat down and retrieved his journal from the satchel he hid underneath his coat. She gathered her sewing tools, and sat down behind the counter to get started on the jacket. She could hear him quietly talking to himself as he wrote. She knew she should not interrupt him, or even speak to him for that matter. Socializing with customers was frowned upon, at least it was for her. She was the assistant. This was not her business to run. And her only job was to do what was asked of her… nothing more, nothing less. However, there was something about his muttering that caught her attention, and she couldn't help but to say _something_.

"Excuse me, Sir," she began, standing up to face him. He looked up, a little startled.

"Miss?" he answered. She cleared her throat.

"Are you okay, Sir?" she asked. He chuckled.

"Oh yes, I'm sorry. I wasn't distracting you, was I?" She looked into his deep blue eyes. She had never seen blue eyes quite like his.

"Oh no, Sir! I just wanted to make sure you were alright." She sat back down quickly and continued her work. She kept her head buried at her desk while softly singing a French hymn and did not notice him get up and walk to the counter. He was enchanted by her exquisite features. Her dark, curly hair was kept up neatly in a simple white cap, with two tendrils resting upon her right brow. Her deep set ebony eyes were accented with long lashes. Her golden brown skin glowed in the sun's morning rays. And her full lips gave way to two dimples on either side of her face when she smiled. Her simple, and rather plain looking petticoat with tucked in blouse would seem on anyone else unflattering. However, she wore her clothes in such a way that revealed her slight hourglass figure.

He had been in contact with people of color before while growing up on the island of Nevis. His mother had a handful of slaves, most of whom were loaned out to help with the expenses that accompanied single parenthood and with a shop that struggled to make significant profits. His first and closest childhood friend was among those owned by Mrs. Hamilton and as such, he had always viewed Blacks the same as himself. His childhood experiences helped shape his anti-slavery philosophy.

"Parles Français?" he inquired, impressed.

"Oui, Monsieur, je le sais," she responded with conviction.

"Je parle aussi couramment," he said with a smile. She smiled at his words as she reached for more thread.

"Je vois, Monsieur" she replied. He nodded his head and smiled.

"And you are a free woman?" he asked.

"Yes, Sir," she confirmed.

"As it should be," he declared. His statement caused her to stop in her tracks.

" _What did he mean by that statement?"_ she thought. _"Could he truly be for the abolishment of slavery?"_ He continued to look around the shop.

"You know," he continued, "I've always been curious as to how that works." Despite her head being down, she could feel his smile upon her cheeks.

"May I ask to what you are referring, Sir?" she asked.

"Sewing… It's truly remarkable the way a piece of seemingly dull fabric can suddenly become something one can wear." To be honest, he knew how sewing worked, especially since he spent much of his adolescence working as a trading clerk. He simply looked for a way in which he might best engage her in conversation. "And it's Alexander…Alexander Hamilton," he expressed. He cleared his throat. "May I ask what your name is, Miss?" She raised her eyebrows at him. Never had a customer asked what her name was, probably because most people who entered the shop believed she was a slave. And the names of slaves were of no importance to most of those whom the shop serviced.

"Hannah," she answered him, softly. "My name is Hannah Cole."

"Miss Cole," he repeated. "You do have a lovely voice."

"Thank you, Mr. Hamilton," she said, as she finished sewing the final button on the jacket before hanging it on the rack beside the table. He looked at his pocket watch in amazement.

"That did not take you very long at all, Miss Cole," he said.

She shook her head.

"No, it did not. Those jobs do not tend to take very long. I just like to give the customer more time than needed, just in case the job is actually a little more complicated than it appears at first." He walked around the counter and checked out some of the dresses that were on the wooden forms.

"It appears that you specialize in ladies' attire."

"I specialize in whatever is asked of me, Mr. Hamilton." He smirked at her remark and walked closer to her.

"So I see." His smile was bewitching; he spoke with a charisma unlike she had ever heard before. "And you made all these dresses yourself?" he asked, running his hand along an extraordinary formal gown.

"I made most of them, yes," she clarified, watching him draw closer to her. She examined him closely. He had medium-length wavy auburn-red hair of which most was pulled back in a ponytail, with a strand or two tucked behind his ears. His peachy skin appeared to have seen a fair amount of time outside in a warmer sun than what pierced New Jersey's skies. He had lightly faded freckles sprinkled about his angular face and maintained a smaller frame for a young man his age, only standing about five feet, seven inches. It was a welcomed difference for her, however, as she was only about five feet, three inches tall. She also noticed a gentle accent that accompanied his words.

"Excuse me if this is forward, but may I ask where you are from?" she asked, grabbing another garment that she'd been sewing in her free time.

"It seems as though I have given myself away," he stated, seemingly anxious by her question. She smiled. His accent was very pleasing to her ear.

"To the contrary," she said. "Although I do notice a slightly different pattern in how you speak, you seem to be very comfortable talking to a Negro, as if you truly believe that we are equal. It… it is just very different." He looked at her with his azure eyes and folded his hands upon the counter.

"But we are the same, Miss Cole… you and me… except for the fact that you are a woman and I am a man. There is no other difference that is of importance to me." She nodded. "But if you must know," he continued, "I am of foreign birth…from the Caribbean to be exact."

"I see." She walked over to him and held out her hand. "Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Hamilton."

"The pleasure is all mine, Mademoiselle Cole," he responded as he brought her hand to his lips, lightly kissing her pecan skin.

"And if it consoles you to know," she continued, "your voice is quite lovely as well. You shouldn't be ashamed of it. It makes you unique."

"Thank you," he said. They shared a smile, and it was that moment when his friend rushed through the door, breaking their entrancement.

"Hello," the friend hastily said. "I trust that my jacket is complete." She nodded her head as she turned away from him and walked over to grab the jacket. She handed it to the friend.

"Yes, Sir," she responded, trying to avoid the piercing blue eyes that had made her heart skip a beat moments before.

"Very good," the friend stated plainly, taking the garment from her hands. "Thank you."

"Your very welcome, Sir," she said, nodding her head respectfully. The friend turned to leave and he followed behind. He looked at her one last time, waving his hand to say goodbye. She waved her hand in reply and smiled slightly at him. There was a connection, almost instantaneous, that happened in that shop that day; one which they would find hard to ignore. But she was afraid that she would never see, or hear, from him again.


	2. Getting to Know You

_You're still here! You are awesome! I look forward to more comments!_

She couldn't have been more wrong. Over the next few weeks, she received letters from him to which she would write pleasant replies. It was through their correspondence that they were really able to get to know each other. He told her his story… a story of a young man born into illegitimacy and orphaned as a young teenager. He wrote of his early struggles, his experience working as an international shipping clerk, and how, after his eloquent article describing a destructive hurricane was published, the people in his homeland came together to sponsor his trip to the colonies for a quality education. He confessed to her that although he had made few friends, he still felt very much alone in this new world.

Her letters echoed a similar sentiment. She wrote of her orphaned past; in how as a young girl, her family had been separated and sold among three different wealthy families. She was sold to a New Jersey family who treated her more as hired help rather than a slave. She learned to cook, sew, and maintain a home. The woman of the house taught her how to read and write, both in English and in French, and ensured that she was well-versed in the classics and in the Holy Book. It was written in her owner's will that she was to be freed upon his death and sent to the family's good friend who owned a sewing and alterations shop in the lower part of Elizabeth. It was there that she was to learn the business in hopes of one day starting a shop of her very own.

She looked forward to receiving his letters, and would read his heart felt words before retiring for the night. He beseeched her to allow him to visit. She believed, however, that it would be too risky for either one of them to be seen socially with the other. She sensed that he had come to this country determined to make a name for himself, and that associating himself romantically with a Negro might be detrimental to his reputation, before he even had a chance to establish one. These exchanges, however, brought them both solace knowing that there was someone else out there with whom they could relate.

His constant pleas wore her down eventually, as she finally relented to a meeting a couple months after initially meeting. It was perfect timing as he was on spring holiday from classes, and her employer was out of town visiting family, leaving her in charge of shop operations. He didn't wait a moment too soon after holiday started. She closed the shop early on the day he promised his visit. She went up to her room and lit a candle in the small window. As she awaited his arrival, she lit a fire and prepared a hearty vegetable stew. She admitted her confusing feelings for him in her journal as the food cooked.

I must say that although I was, and still am, a little concerned about him visiting, there is a part of me that is looking forward to it. I didn't think it was possible. I just knew I had control over who I could fall for. But I am not quite so sure anymore. Through his letters, he has taken me. He makes me feel like his world somehow revolves around me. As if I am the only one permeating his mind from morning til night. It is quite flattering…

How on earth did a White man, through nothing but his words and kindness, almost bring her to her knees? Had she lost all her senses even _considering_ a possible relationship with him? Besides, how could she trust him? Did he really mean what he said about there being no difference between them? Truly, he was too smart to be that naïve. Most people who looked like him believed that people who looked like her were inferior. How could she really know that deep down inside he didn't feel a little of that? She was well into the next page of writing when she heard a knock at the door. She walked over to the window, and saw a shrouded figure standing at the front of the shop. She rushed down the stairs, opened the door, and quickly ushered him inside before looking around to ensure no one had seen him. He followed her upstairs to her loft where the smell of potatoes had filled the small room. She helped him take off his coat, placing it over one of the two chairs that sat along a side window.

"It smells good in here," he commented, walking over to the fireplace.

"I trust you like stew," she replied as she grabbed two bowls from a small cupboard. She placed them upon the table and motioned for him to sit. She then retrieved the pot from the fire and brought it to the table where she dished out a helpful serving for them both to enjoy.

"I do." He laid his napkin over his lap and took an initial bite before wincing.

"It's hot, now," she laughed. "It might help if you blow on it some." She sat down, pushed her long hair behind her ears, and softly blew upon her bowl. Her beauty was alluring. The last time he had seen her, her hair was confined to the white cap she normally wore when she was attending customers or out in public. This night, she had freed her coiled tresses that reached past her breasts. He could not help but gaze at her mysterious dark eyes and her copious lips. He wanted so much to kiss them… to feel the warmth that lay behind her infectious smile.

"This is true," he agreed as he emulated her actions. He tried his best not to stare. Gentlemen, as he had learned, did not stare. But there was something about the way she leaned in toward her bowl that caused his eyes to shift toward her chest. Her dress hugged her just right, teasing the pillowy top of her breasts. He found himself having to surreptitiously adjust his trousers several times while sitting across from her. He was a man, after all.

They shared amicable conversation, some in fluent French, long past the conclusion of their meal. His voice was enticing, especially when he spoke in French. They talked well into the evening until he knew the time had come to return to his residence. Before he left, he took a book out of his satchel and handed it to her.

"What is this? Surely, you are not presenting me with a gift already?" she asked, surprised. She looked at the title, _A Narrative of the Uncommon Sufferings and Surprising Deliverance of Briton Hammon_.

"You like it?" he inquired, hopefully. "I just finished reading it and it is a wonderful work of genius…truly eye-opening. I wanted to pass it onto you."

"And you read this? Truly read this?" Fingering through the pages, she could not believe that he had _wanted_ to read a book about a former slave's tragic experiences. Furthermore, he had _hailed_ the narrative as _genius_ and _eye-opening._ Was he being serious?

"I did," he confirmed, looking at her solemnly. "It was an inspiring piece. In fact, anyone who reads this narrative will see the true horrors of slavery, and what it does to good people, people who deserve the same rights that I have, that I was born with, simply because I am a White man."

"You really believe that, Mr. Hamilton?" she questioned. "You believe in equal rights for all people?" He continued looking into her eyes.

"I do, Miss Cole," he said. "I'm sorry to say, I've been party to this evil. And ever since leaving St. Croix, I swore I would do all I could to fight against it." She knew he had been an owner during his childhood in the Caribbean, as he admitted in one of his letters. At first, she was angry. As a former slave, she wasn't so sure that she could ever trust anyone who could treat another human being as his property. But he was different. He was kind, sensitive, intelligent, and showed interest in taking up for those who suffer at the hands of others. His compassion for his fellow man, regardless of skin color, was apparent not only in his words, but in his actions. His past was just that, the past. Somehow, she found a way to look beyond it, to see him for the man he was at that moment. He was doing something to her, something that she hadn't felt before with or for anyone else. There was a raw honesty to his expression. Not only could she trust him, she was falling for him.

"I love the book! Thank you so much, Mr. Hamilton." She beamed brightly at his thoughtful gesture, hugging the book tightly to her bosom.

"You are quite welcome. And please, you mustn't call me Mr. anymore. I do prefer my friends call me Alexander. And we are friends, aren't we?" he suggested, retrieving his coat. He then felt a tap on his shoulder. As he turned around, she wrapped her arms around him, resting her cheek against his smooth jawline.

"Yes we are, Alexander," she said softly upon his ear. He placed his hands upon her waist, pulling her in just a bit closer. She smelled of roses and lilac. He inhaled deeply, wanting to take in every bit of her. He had thought about her for nights on end; his fantasies hinged on lust and curiosity, as customary for young man of 18. He had never been with a Black woman, but she was absolutely beautiful and he wanted to know her. After their impromptu embrace, they parted ways for the evening, but they knew it wouldn't be the last time…it couldn't be the last time.


	3. A Night Unexpected

_Here's why this story is rated M! Enjoy! And as always I love reviews!_

Now on a first name basis, he continued his visits to the shop throughout holiday. He brought her more books to borrow from his school's library and she'd always have dinner cooking for him upon his arrival. Following dinner, they'd convene in front of the warmth of the fireplace, reading to each other. Some nights, he'd share some of the lessons that he had received not only from his formal schooling, but from the elitist family with whom he lived. He'd read some of his writings, much of their tone reflecting the emerging change felt throughout the colonies. They also echoed the sentiment of freedom from not only British rule, but also for those in bondage. His cry to end slavery resonated deeply with her. Other nights, she'd share some of the business strategies she had learned from her employer. She had become good with numbers, very good, and was so charismatic that she could sell just about anything to anyone. Her creativity knew no bounds. He became privy to much of her sketches illustrating her own clothing designs, sometimes even lending his own ideas making the outfit complete. She even taught him how to sew buttons onto a garment and how to fix a hem. Not only was she very attractive, she was smart! She'd make a fine wife, but he knew that for them, that just wasn't a possibility. There was always an air of unspoken sadness between the two of them. They knew their friendship could never go farther for they'd be ruined if they ever submitted to a committed, romantic relationship.

It rained on the final day of holiday. It hadn't rained that hard in months and most businesses closed early, fearing flooding. Her heart was heavy; she just _knew_ that he wouldn't make it in such weather. She retired early to her quarters, earlier than she did in the previous nights, and prepared a small meal for herself. She changed into her long white shift that she wore to bed each evening, and sat at the table to eat alone. After she finished her meal, she cleaned her face and teeth at the washing bowl by her bed. She lit a small candle as she settled in, and continued reading the book he had given her days before. It was no more than five minutes after she opened the book that she thought she heard a very faint knock downstairs. But the rain was pounding so hard against her window that she concluded at first that it was just the heavy precipitation. Then she heard it again. She put on her robe, grabbed her candle, and rushed down the stairs. Upon opening the door, she saw him standing outside in the same outerwear he had worn all week.

"Alexander!" she exclaimed tremulously as she wasn't expecting him to make it. He looked up to see her handsome face; her mahogany eyes conveyed concern.

"Hello, Hannah," he responded softly. She welcomed him inside quickly, if not quicker than the evenings before, and followed him up the stairs. His clothing was soaked, and he had started to shiver. She quickly disrobed him down to his undershirt and linen drawers. She put some tea on the kettle and handed him a few towels. When the tea was ready, she poured it in a cup and offered it to him.

"Thank you," he said, taking a sip.

"You are welcome," she replied, draping a thick quilt over his shoulders. She hung his drenched apparel by the fireplace. The heavy rain had seeped through his clothes to his undergarments. They clung to his skin as magnet to metal and seemed to outline just about every part of his slender body. His pink nipples were erect from the chilly water as was the part that differentiated his gender from hers. She gulped, for this was the first time she really got to see what his body looked like. She liked what she saw.

"I'm so sorry you had to take me in this way," he remarked sincerely. He, however, made no attempts to shield himself from her view.

"It's quite alright. I honestly thought you were not coming," she claimed.

"Hannah," he started, "I told you that I would visit with you each evening this week and I am a man of my word." He sipped some more of his tea before getting up and placing it on the table. He then stood in front of her and looked at her figure a little closer. He had never seen her in anything but the simple dresses she wore for work. Seeing her in nothing but her evening attire was quite exciting. The neckline on her shift was intentionally low, exposing more of her smooth, caramel skin. He couldn't help but notice her partially exposed cleavage as her breasts rose with each breath she took. She observed how looked at her and blushed.

"I apologize for the way I am dressed, Alexander," she remarked, looking down. She once again caught the part of his long drawers that had grown and truth be told, she was turned on by his natural reaction to her.

"There's no need for apology," he said, moving closer to her. "Tu es belle, tout comme tu es." She sighed softly as she closed her eyes.

"Merci," she whispered. The junction between her thighs became wet embodying her readiness for him. As their faces inched closer together, he reached toward the top of her head and took her bun down, allowing her tight curls to cascade around her face. The butterflies in her stomach returned as she slowly opened her eyes which were immediately pierced with his violet blues. His eyes were as deep as the ocean and my God, she could get lost in them forever! She smelled the soap upon his skin which scent was strangely not washed away in the rain. Strands of his slightly dampened hair had fallen out of his ponytail. She freed the rest of his copper-toned locks from his blue ribbon and combed them behind his ears. He turned his face toward one of her wrists and kissed it gently. He took her hands in his, clasping his fingers tightly between hers.

"Hannah," he began, "I wish to kiss you. Would that be alright?" She breathed deeply as she rested her hands upon his chest. She knew she shouldn't give into her urges. It could only lead to heartbreak because any relationship that ensued from this union was illegal. She searched his earnest eyes. She beheld his lips. She wanted him badly.

"Yes," she agreed. He clutched her chin between his index finger and thumb and kissed her softly on her lips. She tasted so sweet. She let his lips stay on hers for some time as she moved one hand behind his head and the other behind his neck. He grabbed ahold of her waist, desperately wanting to move his hands down towards her ass. He was a fantastic kisser, and she grew curious as to what else his lips could do. When she broke the kiss, she led him to her bed. She knew she shouldn't, but she did not care. Curiosity had gotten the best of her. She gazed into his eyes as she removed her coral robe, allowing it to fall to the floor.

"I know it's not much, but I'd like for you to join me tonight, Alexander," she expressed. He beheld the simple platform that supported a single mattress, a sheet, and a thick hand-woven quilt.

"I would enjoy it very much to share your bed, Hannah," he reciprocated. He kissed her again, deeper this time, pushing his tongue against her opened mouth. She invited it to intertwine with hers as she moaned softly. She ran her hands over his shirt and began unbuttoning his collar. She pushed it up over his head and let it drop to the hard wood floor. She caressed his back and his arms which were surprisingly toned as well. She could never tell with his clothes on. Her passion ignited as she felt his hardness brush against her center. He ran his hands over her perfectly curved hips and brought them to the hem of her nightgown, inching it up toward her chest and over her head. Her golden brown skin glistened amidst the fire's glow. He admired her petite figure that was curved in all the right areas. "You are beautiful, Hannah," he marveled. He finally submitted to his urge and grabbed her rear end with both hands. It was soft and filled his palms quite nicely. His lips found their way to her neck and she bent her head back as he sucked along her collar. She smiled wide at his touch; his fingers tickled her sides and soon found her supple breasts. He massaged them gently, causing her to moan some more. She then broke away from him and entered her bed. She motioned with her finger for him to join her. He smirked as he pulled down his drawers, revealing his erection. She stared at him with a lust in her eyes that he hadn't seen before. The bed pallets creaked slightly as he got into bed and climbed on top on her, pressing his firm chest against her softer breasts. His creamy skin seamlessly blended against her bronze complexion as milk mixed in tea. They kissed passionately again as he played with her curly locks.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked, breaking their embrace. He was aware that most sexual relations between a White man and a Black woman were not one of consent, but rather that of coercion and control. He respected her and wanted to ensure that she wanted him the same way he desired her.

"Yes," she replied assuredly. While supporting himself with one hand, he used the other to softly caress her cheek and gently sweep part of her hair behind her ear. She placed her hands upon his jawline, rubbing her thumbs along the crease of his lips.

"I promise I won't hurt you," he affirmed.

"I know you won't," she sighed. She moved her hands up toward the back of his neck as he trailed his kisses toward her awakened nipples. He sucked on each one, flicking his tongue over the tiny bumps sprawled across her areolas. She sighed, returning her hands to the top of his head. She spread her fingers evenly throughout his rusty mane as he continued toward her aching core. Her legs were open, inviting him in. He brought two fingers to the tip of her clit, rubbing it gently while he teased her naval with his tongue. He touched her in such a way that indicated that he was a much more of a mature lover than his 18 years. He looked up at her face; her eyes were closed and her smile indicated her pleasure.

"Do you like this?" he teased, kissing down toward her caramel thighs.

"Yes!" she responded, excitedly.

"Good." He breathed slowly into her, causing her to arch her back in surprise. She wondered what he was to do down there. No man had dared to put his face in between her legs. He was different; he took his time. He threw both of her legs over his shoulders and slowly brought his lips to meet her second pair. The sensation drove her wild! He lovingly teased her moist walls and clit with his tongue, flicking it faster as she pushed her knees towards his head. Her toes curled up as her moans got louder. He kissed down her leg and around her foot, sucking on each toe. He did the same with the other leg before coming back up to meet her face to face.

"Are you ready?" he asked, situating himself in position to enter her.

"Yes," she confirmed. He gasped as he slowly penetrated her eager center. She was warm, her walls swelling around him and her juices providing more than enough lubrication for him to slip in and out with ease. He fucked her unhurriedly as they continued kissing. He yearned to savor this moment. She gyrated with his movements which encouraged him to go a little faster. They both groaned with pleasure as she dug her nails over the edges of his shoulder. He watched intensely as her eyes rolled back. She dug her nails into his back as he penetrated harder. He kissed her lips intensely before teasing her ears and her neck with his tongue. She lifted up slightly so that his mouth could once again meet her breasts. She moaned as he sucked on each breast and he smiled coyly at the love sounds she made in response to his actions. He ran his hand through her hand and resting it behind her neck. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes as he pumped in and out of her deeper than before. He leaned in so that his face was beside hers and nibbled her earlobe lightly.

"Hannah," he whispered, his breath tickling her ear.

"Alexander," she responded, breathlessly. He looked into her eyes and as he felt her tighten around him, he sped up a little more to encourage her to climax.

"Right there!" she called out, resting her head upon his shoulder and closing her eyes once more. She bit her lip as she grasped his upper back for dear life, allowing herself to let go onto him. He came at almost the same time she did, exploding into her with more passion than he ever had with anyone else before. The pair collapsed onto her small bed, their bodies dripping with beads of sweat, despite the chilly outside temperatures. He stayed inside of her as they assumed a spooning position. He gathered her curls and pulled them behind her head so that he could kiss her neck once more. He then wrapped his arms around her midsection, clasping his fingers over her navel. She smiled at his gentle touch as she gave way to the fatigue that often followed good love making.


	4. What Happens Next?

_You made it to the end, my friend! Told you it wouldn't be too bad! Now I sit and await your final thoughts :)_

This wasn't the last time he spent the night. They enjoyed their secret liaisons whenever he could sneak away from his living quarters. They taught each other many things and it was with each other that they nourished very healthy sexual appetites. Their visits continued, albeit quite sporadically, even after he left for the City to continue his education at King's College. He took advantage of school breaks whenever he could to return to the small shop where he first felt her gentle touch. When they were together, it was as if time stood still and no one else existed but them. It was within these stolen moments that they had fallen in love, but they knew that their affair was not meant to last.

As he moved on to pursue great things as a commanding general, esteemed lawyer, the country's first treasury secretary, and the founder of the Coast Guard, she went on to operate the sewing shop in which she worked as a young woman. She had inspired him to fight fervently against the evils of slavery, writing passionate essays urging for its abolishment, joining the New York Manumission Society, and eventually extending his law services to aid free Blacks in the City. She also wrote a number of essays in support of the abolishment of slavery and women's rights that went on to be published under a pseudonym. She had read just about everything he published while, unbeknownst to her, he had done the same. She watched and marveled at how he had achieved all that he had set out to. He was amazed, but not surprised, that her adeptness and pure acumen had catapulted her to the forefront of the small business, for she owned the first Black-owned business in her town.

As time passed, they drifted apart somewhat, as most teenaged lovers do. But they thought of each other quite often. Truth be told, they missed each other terribly. If only they were in another time, or in another place, it might've been ok for them to have made a life together. They both married at roughly the same time. The wife he had chosen was a decent and pure woman, possessing many of the same qualities that she had. And although they might've been married to other people, whom they cared for, they always believed deep down that they were made to love one another.

Their letters to each other were few and far between, but they made it a point to keep in touch nonetheless. It saddened her to hear his contemporaries drag his name through the mud. She knew that despite some of the messes he might have been involved in, he was still a good and honest man. And her heart was broken when he was killed. It had been over 30 years since their first time, and she couldn't imagine the once vibrant and energetic red-headed kid who had captivated her all those years ago lifeless. She garnered enough strength to attend his funeral, bringing along her eldest son, a young man of about 30. She waited for the crowds to dissipate and then slowly approached his coffin. Her son held her hand as she placed a single rose upon his it, dabbing the streaks from her tears with a handkerchief he'd given her years ago during their affair. He watched his mother bring her fingers to her lips and placed them gently a top his tomb. And as she started toward the exit of the Trinity Church graveyard, the young man continued to gaze upon the General's wooden casket, bearing the _same eyes_ that had once stolen his mother's heart.

 _This concludes part 1 of a 3 part story illustrating Hannah and Alex. There's a bit more to come!_


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